


Correspondence Course

by a_t_rain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, Marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: A teenaged Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Severus Snape get summer jobs as instructors for the Kwikspell Correspondence School, with regrettable results.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	1. Workers of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written before DH, but I think pretty much book-canon-compliant (as long as you're willing to accept the possibility that Snape may have been fleetingly attracted to someone other than Lily). NOT compliant with JKR's backstory for Remus (and possibly not for other MWPP-era characters as well); there was no way to make it so, and I didn't try.
> 
> If you know J.D. Salinger's short story "De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period," you will recognize that it was the inspiration for Severus's correspondence with his pupils, but if you haven't, don't worry -- this will still make perfectly good sense on its own.

Ultimately, it was my father’s fault that I spent a considerable portion of the eighteenth summer of my life impersonating a nun.

The financial system that operated in our household when I was a teenager, I had better explain, was both exceedingly simple and exceedingly bizarre. My father, who had once taught Potions at Beauxbatons, had thrown his whole career over after I was bitten by a werewolf, and dedicated his life to certain experiments with aconite. Now and again he tried his hand at other ventures, such as growing vegetables and raising rabbits for the pot – but he couldn’t bring himself to pull up weeds with potentially interesting properties, and nobody could bring themselves to kill the rabbits, so all we got from his efforts were a few dandelion-filled salads and the occasional bit of income from a neighbor who wanted a pet bunny. My mother, who wrote books about magical ethics, was the only member of the family who could make any claim to being a regular breadwinner. When Dad wanted money, he asked her for it – which worked out well enough, as he was an absent-minded and unworldly soul who was perfectly happy wearing the same robes year in and year out, and the only reason why he ever wanted money was to pay me for helping him out in his backyard Potions laboratory. And then, if Mum wanted to do the shopping and hadn’t been able to twist her publisher’s arm into giving her an advance, she would borrow the money from me.

Once or twice I ventured to suggest that it might simplify this whole process if I gave my father a hand _without_ being paid, which I was, of course, perfectly happy to do. He refused to hear of it, claiming that I was entitled to a fair wage for my work, and in any case shuffling money around in circles was the general principle on which all economic systems were based, and somehow it created wealth. I did not understand this last point, but was content to let it pass, and this eccentric but happy state of affairs continued until the Easter holidays of my sixth year at school, when Dad suddenly woke up and noticed that I was lousy at Potions, and that my friend Sirius Black was very good at them.

“I was thinking that I might hire Sirius as my laboratory assistant for the summer,” he announced at dinner one night, blithely unconscious that this would upset our entire household economy. “The boy is very bright, and he has left his family; he will have to earn a living for himself. We ought to help him.”

My mother and I looked at each other in alarm. “That’s a lovely idea, René,” Mum said at last, in her most diplomatic voice, “but I don’t think we can afford it.”

“Nonsense, Celia,” said my father. “I would pay him the same as I pay Remus; it makes no difference.”

“But when you pay Remus, we can always borrow it back at the end of the month.”

“Then we will borrow from Sirius. It makes no difference.”

We endeavored to explain that the difference between hiring an employee and paying one’s son for the same work was that one could _not_ , in fact, ask the employee for one’s money back at the end of the month; but as my father never really seemed to grasp this point, I made a mental note to look around for a surer form of employment that summer.

* * *

When I saw the advertisement in the back pages of the Prophet, it seemed like a godsend.

_**The Kwikspell Correspondence School is looking for a few good wizards!** _

_Have you ever thought you might have a flair for teaching? Would you like to make a little extra money, work at your own pace, and set your own hours? Do you enjoy helping others?_

It took me only a moment to decide that the answer to all three of these questions was yes. I read on.

_If so, you should consider becoming an instructor for the Kwikspell Correspondence School of Magic! We offer pleasant work in a flexible environment. You will teach as many or as few students as you care to take on through our All-New, Fail-Safe, Quick-Result, Easy-Learn “Conjuring by Correspondence” method! “Conjuring by Correspondence” is a unique, patented approach that gets guaranteed results! Enjoy the satisfaction of watching your students improve their performance in a matter of weeks!_

_We are looking for a few dynamic, personable individuals to join our team this summer. Applicants must be over seventeen and able to perform Charms, Transfiguration, and Defence Against the Dark Arts to N.E.W.T. standard._

_We pay cash!_

_Inquiries should be directed to Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle, Seven Cleric Alley, London. Please send a letter of application describing your experience and qualifications for the position._

I considered my qualifications. I had turned seventeen in March, and while I wasn’t actually going to sit N.E.W.T.s until next year, the advertisement named three of my better subjects. I thought I was probably personable. Dynamic? I wasn’t so sure. But in any case, I was in dire need of money, and because of my condition, I also required a job where I could set my own hours and nobody would notice if I disappeared around the full moon. This one sounded perfect. Best of all, I rather liked the idea of teaching. I pictured myself offering a lifeline to some near-Squib who had almost given up hope of learning magic, or to a fellow-werewolf who had not been as lucky as I had been.

Fired up with idealistic fervor (and the promise of being paid cash), I began to compose a letter to my prospective employer.

* * *

_24 April 1976_

_~~Dear Mr Harbottle,~~ _

_~~Dear Mr “Wiz”~~ _

_Dear Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle,_  
_I am writing in response to your advertisement in the employment section of the Daily Prophet. I hope that you will consider me for the position as Correspondence School Instructor. While I have no formal teaching experience, I am a patient and adaptable person who has experience dealing with a great variety of situations. ~~For example, I once spent an entire afternoon upside down when my friends discovered a spell called Levicorpus.~~ For example, I tutored my friend Peter so that he passed his Defence Against the Dark Arts exam with an E, even though a month before the exam he was still getting other people’s wands lodged up his nose whenever he tried to Disarm them. I myself had an O in DADA and Es in Charms and Transfiguration. Teaching is a noble profession, and it has always been a dream of mine to have a career where I can help people realize their fullest potential. Thank you for considering my application._

_Sincerely,_  
_R. J. Lupin_

* * *

“Who’re you writing to, Moony?” asked Sirius.

“Nobody. Part of the bourgeoisie. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Sirius, who had been disowned by his aristocratic parents over the Christmas holidays, was at present under the happy delusion that this made him working-class. He had taken to babbling about solidarity and reading _Das Kapital_ in the evenings, in a facing-page translation as he was trying to teach himself German at the same time. For the past half-hour, he had been staring at the open volume of Marx without turning the page, trying manfully not to look as bored as he patently was.

“What about?”

“I’m applying for a job.”

“Capitalism is shite. You should join the revolution. What kind of a job?”

“Teaching for a correspondence course.”

“I bet I could do that. Let me see the advert.”

“I thought you were too busy joining the revolution.”

“I can’t very well unite the workers of the world if I haven’t been one first, can I?”

He had a point there, I had to admit. I handed him the paper.

“This bloke’s advertising in the _Prophet_ , and he calls himself ‘The Wiz’? What kind of stupid nickname is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I should go around Hogwarts calling myself Sirius ‘The Student’ Black. To differentiate myself from all the other students.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is a bit silly when you put it like that...”

“Or you could start calling yourself Remus ‘The Teenage Werewolf’ Lupin.”

“ _No._ ”

“I think you _should_. I mean, nobody would think you really _were_ a teenage werewolf, because nobody expects nicknames to state the obvious. It’s the perfect cover.”

“You’re already pushing it with ‘Moony.’ Are you going to apply for that job, or aren’t you?”

“Sure I’m going to apply. Just let me finish the crossword first.”

“You’re doing it upside down.”

“I like a challenge.”

* * *

_24 April 1976_

_Dear The Wiz,_  
_I am a young wizard of good family who has renounced his upbringing and now wishes to join the proletariat. I read in your advertisement that you are looking for workers to exploit. Exploit me, please._  
_Regards,_  
_Sirius Alphard Black_

* * *

“That’s the dumbest letter of application I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“It isn’t dumb, it’s just honest. I bet yours is full of bourgeois rot about ‘teaching is a noble profession’ and ‘helping people realize their fullest potential’. Isn’t it?”

“No,” I said, hiding my own letter with my hand.

“Is too.”

I sighed and prepared to begin yet another draft of my letter.

* * *

“It’s Lily’s birthday on May ninth. What do you think I should get her?” James asked a couple of evenings later.

“A bunny rabbit,” I said promptly. “Or several. If you buy three of them, my parents will give you the hutch for free.”

“Will you stop trying to flog your rabbits at every possible opportunity?”

“I’m just giving you some disinterested expert advice, Prongs. Girls love bunny rabbits. They melt all over them.”

“Really?”

“I’ve never known it to fail.” 

“That’s because rabbits are fertility symbols,” Peter piped up unexpectedly. “If you give Lily one, it’s like a subconscious way of telling her she wants to make babies with you.”

James looked highly alarmed at this.

I glared at Peter. “SUBconscious,” I said. “It doesn’t mean she’ll want babies _at this very moment_ , it just means she’ll be looking at you in a different way than she was before.”

James was still looking dubious.

“If she doesn’t like it, my mum will take it back. And we’ll throw in a week’s supply of hay. Haven’t you always wanted some free hay?”

“Er. Not really,” said James, but I could tell he didn’t have any better ideas.

“Typical of the petit bourgeoisie,” muttered Sirius, looking up from Karl Marx unexpectedly. “They manufacture a need that doesn’t exist, and then convince you that you can’t do without it. Just another example of the – the –”

“The violence inherent in the system?” I suggested.

“Yes, exactly,” said Sirius gravely. His family had never allowed him to see Muggle films.

“Help, help!” said James as he reached for a quill. “I’m being repressed!”

* * *

_26 April_

_Dear Mrs Lupin,_  
_How are you? I hope you and your husband are well. I was hoping to buy a birthday present for a friend, and I was wondering if you had any baby rabbits for sale? Sirius and Peter say hello._  
_Cheers,_  
_James Potter_

* * *

_27 April 1976_

_Dear Mr Lupin,_  
_Thank you for your interest in the Kwikspell Correspondence School of Magic. I am pleased to inform you that we still have several openings, and we will be interviewing candidates at our premises in Cleric Alley on the 15th of May, between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. Let me know what time would work best for you._  
_Sincerely,_  
_Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle_

* * *

_27 April 1976_

_Dear Mr Black,_  
_Thank you for your interest in the Kwikspell Correspondence School of Magic. I am pleased to inform you that we still have several openings, and we will be interviewing candidates at our premises in Cleric Alley on the 15th of May, between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. Let me know what time would work best for you._  
_Sincerely,_  
_Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle_

* * *

“Er’m, Padfoot? This isn’t going to work. We’re still at _school_ on the 15th of May.”

“Don’t worry. Leave everything to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I said don’t _worry_.”

* * *

_28 April_

_Dear James,_  
_It’s such a pleasure to hear from you (and Sirius and Peter). How are your classes going? In regard to your question, you’re in luck – one of our does had a litter a few weeks ago. There are four baby bunnies, and my husband and I are selling them for ten Sickles each. Of course, I always do think it is a shame to separate the brothers and sisters, so if you think your friend might like two bunnies, we’d be happy to let you have the second one for only eight Sickles._

_All my best,_  
_Celia (Please don’t call me Mrs. Lupin; you’re nearly of age and it makes me feel so old)_

* * *

_29 April_  
_~~Dear Mrs. Lupin,~~ _

_~~Dear Celia,~~ _

_Hi,_  
_I’ll take all four if you’ll let me have the hutch for free._  
_James_

* * *

_30 April_  
_Dear James,_  
_Fair enough. I’ll send the rabbits and the hutch right away. By the way, I do hope your friend’s parents know about this gift?_

_I have enclosed a week’s supply of hay, some carrots, and instructions for a simple birth control spell. The latter will work on all mammals, incidentally, should you have other occasions to use it._

_Once again, warmest regards to all your friends, and I hope to see you this summer._  
_Celia_

* * *

“Er’m, Moony? Does your mum mean – is she trying to say what I think she is?”

“Yes.” My mother was a petite, prematurely grey-haired woman with a gentle and deceptively old-fashioned air. She was quite a bit sharper than my father.

James whistled, and then looked as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this.

* * *

_1 May_

_Dear Professor Slughorn,_  
_Please excuse Sirius from his classes and give him permission to leave the school grounds on the 15th. My husband and I have unexpectedly been called out of town, and we need Sirius to babysit Nymphadora._

_Please excuse Remus Lupin as well. We need him to babysit Sirius._

_I trust this finds you well, and I hope you enjoy the candied pineapple (enclosed)._

_With warmest memories,_  
_Andromeda Black Tonks_

* * *

“You’re off your head.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s not going to believe that.”

“You just don’t understand Slughorn. He’ll believe anything if it comes with candied pineapple. Trust me.”

“All right, so I don’t understand Slughorn.” This was very likely, as I had never been one of his favorites; he seemed to hold me personally responsible for my father’s retirement from the academic world. “But Andromeda’s going to kill you when she finds out you forged her signature.”

“Who says she’s going to find out?” Sirius tied the letter to the owl’s leg, leaned back, and lazily Summoned the bottle of firewhiskey he kept under the bed and two glasses. “Have some May Day cheer. To the workers of the world. May they include us so we can all throw off our chains together.”

* * *

“Oh, they’re so _cute!_ ” Lily squealed when she saw the basket of baby rabbits. “They’re _adorable!_ I’m going to call them Ether, Samoa, Estella, and Consumption!”

We stared at her.

“It’s after a joke. Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” asked James eagerly.

“Ether.”

“Ether who?”

“Ether Bunny.” (Groans.) “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” I said politely, after a short silence.

“Samoa.”

“Samoa who?”

“Samoa Ether Bunnies. Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” asked Peter after I elbowed him in the back. Politeness was one thing; getting stuck saying “Who’s there?” all evening was another.

“Estella.”

“Estella who?”

“Estella Nother Ether Bunny. Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” said Sirius, who for some reason appeared to have started _liking_ this joke.

“Consumption.”

“Consumption who?”

“Consumption be done about all these Ether Bunnies?”

“That is the most annoying joke EVER,” said Sirius with the reverence of a true connoisseur. “I can’t wait to try it out on Reg – er, on somebody. Maybe on Reg if he ever talks to me again.”

There was a short, awkward silence.

“I know a joke,” said Peter helpfully. He gave Lily a sidelong glance, as though hoping to impress her. “A troll, a hag, and a leprechaun went into a bar,” he began, and then looked blank for a moment. “Oh yeah. And then they remembered they didn’t drink, so they went to the synagogue instead.” Looking around at his audience, he registered that the joke seemed somehow incomplete. “As you do,” he added hopefully.

By this time we were all in stitches except Lily, who just looked baffled. We explained that while Peter’s jokes usually lacked anything that normal people would consider a punch line, there was usually some vein of logic deep down underneath. “It might help to know that the last time he told this joke, it was about three rabbis,” James told her.

“But three rabbis going to the synagogue isn’t a punch line either. I mean, it’s logical, but it isn’t _funny_.”

“Whereas a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun going to the synagogue is _hilarious_ ,” I said. “It’s a typical Peter joke. He gets everything wrong, but it’s an _inspired_ sort of wrongness.”

“Oh,” said Lily, but she still didn’t seem to get it.

“Prongs, mate,” said Sirius solemnly, after she had left the room. “I hate to be the one to say it, but you picked a defective girl. She’s humor-impaired.”

“She is not!” said James indignantly. “She just needs – needs some time to get used to us.”

“She’s, er, going to be hanging out with us a lot, then?” Peter asked the question that had been on everyone’s mind ever since Lily had started speaking to James. He looked eager. Sirius looked dismayed.

“Yes, I think she will.”

“I might need some time to get used to her, too,” said Sirius.

James gave him a Look, and things began to get very tense indeed. Peter and I decided we were going to bed.


	2. People with Problems

“Lily’s all right,” I said as we boarded the Knight Bus on the day of our interview. “She’s very – very _nice_. One of the nicest people I know, actually.”

“Oh no!” said Sirius. “Not you too!”

“What?”

“First Prongs, and then – have you noticed the way _Wormtail_ keeps drooling over her? It’s ridiculous.”

“I only said that I thought she was nice. I’m not in _love_ with her or anything.”

“Well, good. Love is a bourgeois invention.”

“But, I mean, if James has to have a girl, he could do a lot worse. That’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s just it.” Sirius braced himself against the wall as the bus made the long jump to London. “I don’t see _why_ he has to have a girl. What about the rest of us?”

“What about us?”

“It’s always just been the four of us, and we’ve got a lot of secrets together. Do you want some _girl_ knowing all of them?”

_That_ was a point, I realized.

“She could send us all to Azkaban if she knew. Well, not _you_ so much, but...”

“It could be even worse for me.” An icy lump congealed in my stomach as I thought about Lily, long-haired and laughing, with her lap full of rabbits. I liked the way she smiled at me – it wasn’t anything like the way she looked at James, but it was _friendly_. And people didn’t, as a rule, care to be friends with man-eating monsters.

And yet there had been a few moments last year – when we were patrolling the halls late at night, or raiding the kitchens after prefect meetings – when I had been on the verge of confiding in her about _why_ I was mysteriously absent one night a month, and often ill for days after that. And then – well, things had happened, and I had been forced to think about just how little chance at a normal life I would have if everyone knew. (Most of those things had been Sirius’ fault, but we weren’t talking about that just then.)

However you looked at it, things were changing. I supposed it couldn’t be helped – one couldn’t very well stay twelve or thirteen or fourteen forever – but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

“Cleric Alley!” called the driver, and we hurried to get off before the bus could jump again.

Number Seven was a tall building filled with offices. The headquarters of the Kwikspell Correspondence Course were on the very top floor, up a seemingly endless spiral staircase lit by the occasional guttering candle. The Kwikspell office, however, was brightly lit and garishly painted in yellow and orange. We were greeted by Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle himself, who turned out to be an energetic man in his forties. He wore electric blue robes and seemed to show about twice as many teeth as most people when he smiled, which was constantly.

“Welcome to the Kwikspell School of Magic, home of the All-New, Fail-Safe, Quick-Result, Easy-Learn “Conjuring by Correspondence” Method!” Roger said all in one breath. He bounced forward on the balls of his feet. “What can we do for you? We have a special on this week, eight lessons for the price of four, and we’ll even enter you in a drawing to win a free owl!” He gestured toward a row of cages that hung by the window, each containing a small bundle of tatty-looking feathers.

“Er, we’re here for an interview. I’m Sirius Black, and this is my friend Remus Lupin.”

“Oh, top stuff!” Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle beamed. “We’re always looking for the most talented instructors, so let’s start by seeing what you’re made of!” He pointed to Sirius. “You, young man, go in the other room, and you stay here.”

I watched as he took one of the owls out of the cages and handed me an envelope from the desk. “Now, we’re looking for people who are proficient and _prepared_. In our business, you have to be first-rate at long-distance magic, and you also have to be prepared for all kinds of letters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“ _All_ kinds of letters. So what I want you to do is send a curse in this envelope to your friend in the other room – any kind of curse – and we’ll see how he deals with it.”

I wondered what kind of correspondence school this was, if it kept getting curses from its students, but thought it best to do as he asked. I chose the Eyebrow-Scorching Curse, as it was relatively self-contained, though dramatic, and I thought it wouldn’t do too much damage to Sirius if it caught him off guard.

“Brilliant ... top spellwork ... now, we’ll just have Fido here fly in with the letter and see what he makes of it.” Roger followed the owl as it flapped down the hallway, and I was left alone in the room.

After a few minutes, Fido the owl returned with a second envelope tied to his leg. Roger followed and watched me from the doorway. Having been fairly warned, I untied the envelope warily and muttered a number of counterspells for the most common hexes – and several uncommon ones. Then, just to stay on the safe side, I cast a Dark-Arts Detecting spell on the envelope. It came up clean.

Carefully, I slit the envelope open.

Sirius’ voice filled the room. “RICTUSEMPRA VERMICRINIS TARANTALLEGRA LEVICORPUS AGUAMENTI –”

I made a desperate grab for my wand as it slipped from my belt, just before a jet of water hit me in the face.

“EXPELLIAR –”

“Silencio!” I managed to gasp between fits of laughter.

I un-hexed myself as best I could, turned a half-somersault, and landed with my feet on the ground.

“Top job!” shouted Roger. “What reflexes! I thought for sure he’d have you when he thought of sending a Howler!”

I shook myself dry and thought about killing Sirius, but of course the only reason why I’d been able to parry the succession of hexes at all was that I’d spent six years sharing a dorm with him and James. So it all evened out, sort of.

Sirius strode into the room. “You sure look good with worms for hair,” he said.

“Oh, right. Forgot to undo that one.” I waved my wand at my head and looked hopefully at his eyebrows, but they seemed to be completely intact.

“You boys are really at the top of your game! The job’s yours if you want it.” Roger shook hands with both of us. I was startled; somehow I had been expecting that the interview would touch on our _teaching_ ability at some point, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Now, let me tell you about our students. Our students are not like the sort of students you might know at Hogwarts. Ours are people with problems. Not little problems. Big problems.”

Roger paused; I don’t know whether it was for emphasis or whether he was expecting us to say something. I tried to look suitably impressed with the magnitude of his students’ problems, and hoped that if any reply was required, Sirius would make it.

“I’m talking about Squibs, school leavers, people with spell damage, people who have never really got on in the wizarding world. And their difficulty with magic is affecting every aspect of their relationships – leading to marital problems, depression, and so on. Now, what do you imagine the solution to those problems might be?”

We shook our heads. Now that I had been offered the position, I was beginning to feel less and less confident that I wanted it.

“Why, my patented All-New, Fail-Safe, Quick-Result, Easy-Learn 'Conjuring by Correspondence' Method, of course!” Roger looked disappointed that we had failed to divine this. “Let me tell you all about my method and how it works...”

Half an hour later, Sirius and I were no more enlightened about what the All-New, Fail-Safe, Quick-Result, Easy-Learn "Conjuring by Correspondence" Method entailed than we had been when Roger started talking, but I supposed we could work it out as we went along. 

He concluded by explaining how students were matched to instructors. “The first time a new student writes to us, the letter comes to the central office, and I send it back out by owl – to a particular instructor if the student requests one, otherwise to one of the new people so they have a chance to build up a clientele. After that, it’s your responsibility to stay in touch with the student until they complete the course or request to be assigned to someone else. If they’re satisfied and recommend the course to other people, those new students will often ask to be assigned to you as well, and you can build up your own base of clients from there. If they’re _not_ satisfied and people stop requesting your services, then we’ll have to let you go. Our motto at Kwikspell is ‘Survival of the Fittest Teachers’.” Roger showed his teeth again. It occurred to me that he looked a little like a shark when he did that.

“Capitalist pigs,” Sirius muttered under his breath. I kicked him in the ankle.

“Now, do you boys have any questions?” Roger asked.

I shook my head vigorously and thanked him for hiring us before Sirius could get a word in. We’d already spent quite a bit more time in the interview than either of us had planned, and I was anxious to get back to school before our absence could be noticed.

As we descended the spiral staircase, a figure like an overgrown bat flapped past us on its way up. Its nose was buried in an old copy of the Prophet, and it was muttering something under its breath. I thought, for a moment, that the figure and the voice seemed eerily familiar; but the light was dim, and I was entirely prepared to believe I was mistaken. I decided not to say anything to Sirius.

* * *

The summer holidays came, and with them our first students. Sirius was at this time living with James’s family in Godric’s Hollow, but it was a short Floo trip from my house, and James had lent me his magic mirror for the summer. We compared notes almost every day.

* * *

_20 June 1976_   
_Little Whinging, Surrey_

_Dear Mr Harbottle,_   
_I understand that your course comes recommended very highly. I wish to take lessons in practical magic that I can use in my trade (I am a professional breeder of Kneazles). I do not presume to be able to learn anything at all fancy or flashy, but I should like to be able to perform some basic grooming and cleaning spells. It is a source of great distress to me that I have to clean the litter trays by hand, and I hope that you can help me with this task in particular._

_Yours most sincerely,_   
_Arabella Figg (Mrs.)_

* * *

“Easy-peasy,” said Sirius.

* * *

_21 June_

_Dear Mrs. Figg,_   
_Please allow me to introduce myself; I am Sirius Black, your designated instructor for the Kwikspell Correspondence Course. The first lesson will cover a simple cleaning spell. Simply pronounce the word “Scourgify” clearly and distinctly, with the accent on the first syllable and a soft g, and at the same time_

* * *

“What’s the matter?” I asked. Sirius had been staring at the parchment for fully ten minutes. Every so often he took his wand out, made a few experimental motions, and muttered something at it.

“I can’t work out how to describe the wand motions for _Scourgify_ in a letter. Can you?”

“Well, you make sort of a flicking motion with your wrist – Or maybe it’s more of a swoop –” 

James looked up from the letter he was writing to Lily Evans. “Definitely a swoop,” he said. “You dip down and then come up again, and you have to put a bit of elbow into it...”

“To the left or to the right?” Sirius asked.

“Left,” I said. 

“Right,” said James.

I considered this. “I think he might be right. Aargh, I know how to _do_ it, but I get messed up when I _think_ about it.”

“Go on and do it, then,” said Sirius, “and I’ll watch you. We can go upstairs so nobody disturbs us.”

I spent the next half hour _Scourgify_ -ing while Sirius took furious notes. By the end of that time, he thought he might have worked out how to describe the motions to Mrs. Figg, and I had, at any rate, cleaned both James’s and Sirius’s rooms for them.

“You owe me,” I said.

“I’ll help you out next time you’re having trouble with a student,” Sirius promised.

But my own first student gave every sign of being beyond help. At the very least, he seemed to need a marriage counselor, not a correspondence instructor.

* * *

_23 June_   
_Didsbury_

_Dear Mr Harbottle,_   
_I am writing to you with the understanding that absolute confidentiality is assured. I wish to consult you about a sensitive problem that is causing me great personal difficulty. Some years ago, I married a young, beautiful, and extremely gifted witch who had just been appointed to a prestigious position at the Ministry of Magic. I was, as I thought, a lucky man. I had never been a great hand at spellwork, but she said that this was not a problem for her. We agreed that her career would come before mine. Well, time passed, and it appeared that she was ashamed of me and my abilities. She took to spending late nights at the Ministry with her colleagues, including one gentleman – and I use the term loosely – whom I can only describe as an absolute blackguard. Unfortunately he exerts an almost irresistible power over women – a phenomenon which I can only attribute to magic, for his personal charms are no more remarkable than my own, and his character utterly depraved. And yet my wife finds him an Adonis, and when she speaks to me at all it is only to mock and sneer at me. I beg you for help: please teach me how to cast whatever spell it is that my wife’s colleague uses, or failing that, at least keep me from being a laughingstock among men. I am almost at the end of my rope._   
_That Most Unhappy of Wizards,_   
_Warlock D. J. Prod_

* * *

“Ouch,” said Sirius after perusing this missive for a moment. (I regret to say that D. J. Prod’s insistence on absolute confidentiality had made a shallower impression on me than it should have; but then, it didn’t seem to have made much of an impression on Roger either.) “She sounds like the bitch from hell. I bet she’d get along with my mum.”

“Well, we’ve only got his side of the story. And I don’t even know where to begin. What do you think he wants from us?”

“You could send him a recipe for a love potion. That’s pretty much what he asked for.”

I took the letter back and frowned at it. “But somehow I don’t really think it’s what he needs.”

“Well, you can always just give him some general tips on how to handle his wand. So to speak.”

I groaned. “You know, for my own peace of mind I’m going to pretend that wasn’t a massive double-entendre.”

“Whatever you want to believe, Moony.”

* * *

_24 June_

_Dear D. J.,_   
_My name is Remus Lupin and I am going to be your instructor for the Kwikspell course. I have received your letter, and I am very sorry to hear of your troubles. You may rest assured that your situation is more common than you might think, and it is nothing to be ashamed of. If you would like to talk about it and perhaps give me some more guidance as to what you would like to learn, please feel free. For now, perhaps we should go over some basics of Charms and Transfiguration, and possibly Defense Against the Dark Arts if you feel that your wife falls into that category..._

* * *

The following day brought letters from two new students. Roger had assigned one of them, an accountant named Prewett, to Sirius, and the other to me.

* * *

_25 June_

_Dear Proffesor,_   
_I want to improve me magic. Its not very good right now because I am from another country and I never had the good luck to go to Hogwarts and study under Proffesor Dumbledore. (Great man, Dumbledore.) We don’t have such good schools in me home country. I know basic charms and transfigrashin, up to what might be third year level in Britian, but I will be happy to learn anything else you can teach me._   
_Cheers,_   
_Sue Hurdabirg_

_P.S. Do you like animals?_

* * *

I did, and I found both her eagerness to learn and her slightly fractured English charming. “What sort of name is Hurdabirg?” I asked Sirius.

He glanced at the letter. “Swedish, I think.”

I am ashamed to say that my imagination went off in all manner of wild directions at this revelation. While Sirius had merely said “Swedish,” I heard “Swedish model,” and I was soon lost in visions of the mysterious Sue, clad in a skimpy bikini and stretched out on some distant northern shore. I took a great deal of trouble over her first lesson, picturing how grateful she would be to the wizard who personally taught her how to perform magic up to British standards. (I had, of course, taken trouble over my letter to D. J. Prod as well – but perhaps not quite so much.)

I was confident that we had chosen the best of all possible summer jobs in the best of all possible worlds. This blissful state of assurance lasted until Mrs. Figg and Mr. Prewett sent Sirius their first efforts.

* * *

“Ugh!” yelped Sirius when he opened the package from Mrs. Figg. A black, melted-looking object fell out, along with a shower of greyish gravel that we were eventually able to identify as cat litter. The black item might once have been an ordinary litter tray, but was now trying to see how it looked as modern sculpture, and the smell was indescribable – a combination of scorched plastic, Kneazle excrement, and the inimitable odor of magic gone horribly wrong.

“I think some people shouldn’t try to do _Scourgify_ ,” I said after a moment.

“Agreed,” said Sirius when he had stopped coughing. He tried to Vanish the object, but Mrs. Figg’s spellwork had apparently rendered it impervious to all other forms of magic.

Unfortunately, he had opened the package at the Potters’ kitchen table. “My mum’s going to kill you,” James observed when he walked in.

“No, she isn’t. You’re going to help me get rid of it before she gets home,” said Sirius.

“Not me, mate. I don’t even work for Kwikspell.”

“Exactly,” said Sirius. “You don’t work for Kwikspell. In fact, you don’t work at all –”

“That’s because I’m not of age –”

“And you stand to inherit the Potter fortune. In short, mate, you are Capital, one of the Bosses, and you’re going to have your back against the wall when the revolution comes, and it’s time to show you can do an honest day’s labor before it’s too late. If you give us workers a hand, we _might_ spare you.”

We buried the item in the garden and spent the rest of the morning sweeping up cat litter and casting deodorizing spells on the kitchen. It didn’t help much.

* * *

Prewett’s first effort was even stranger. A considerable volume of paper with numbers printed on it fell out of the envelope, but it had all been shredded to confetti. The flakes of paper drifted slowly down to the floor of the Potters’ kitchen, where they spelled out the following words in elegant handwriting: 

_the smallest prime number plus the cube root of eight is equal to the square root of the sum of three squared and four squared_

We stared at this in silence for some minutes, except for James, who immediately started scribbling something on the back of the envelope. “Padfoot, what did you try to teach him?” I asked.

“Just a few of the accounting charms that Flitwick taught us last year. Maybe I got a little too fancy with the Arithmancy.”

“Flitwick is part goblin, you know,” I said. “He has it in his blood. Did you really think that sort of thing was suitable for a beginner?”

“Well, how was I to know? I’ve never taught anything before!”

James looked up from the envelope. “You realize that whole equation is just a fancy way of saying two and two make five, don’t you?”

Sirius groaned and reached for the broom and dustpan yet again.

* * *

I had better luck with my own clients. Sue Hurdabirg was, as she had said, clearly a beginner, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with her innate ability. She made slow but steady progress and sent me a number of grateful and chatty letters, which I kept in a box under my bed when I was not poring over them looking for indications of more-than-friendly regard. (She signed herself “Your’s Affecktionatly” after the second letter, which I took as a very hopeful sign indeed.) I asked her what it was like in Sweden and whether she had ever seen the famous broom race; she responded in the negative, but sent a detailed description of the care and habits of the Swedish Short-Snout. I supposed it was really too much to hope that a girl would be interested in sport and discovered, instead, that _I_ was very interested in dragons. And so it went. I caught Sirius smirking sometimes when I mentioned Sue and her letters, but I chalked this up to his belief that love was a bourgeois invention and thought no more of it.

D. J. Prod was making progress as well, although I was somewhat concerned about the way he seemed to be applying his lessons. I had taught him a few personal grooming spells, believing that they couldn’t do any harm and might help him recapture his wife’s affections, but he found a rather more creative use for them than I had intended.

* * *

_... I must thank you for everything you taught me in the last lesson, particularly the instructions for the shaving and beard-shaping spells. I shadowed my rival home from the Ministry on the evening of Tuesday last and waited until he was alone in a remote alley; then, creeping up stealthily behind him, I murmured “Radito” and was glad to see his beard fall away as though it had been shorn by an invisible shepherd. I divested him of his hair as well, and then betook myself homeward, where my wife lay sleeping and unawares. I gave her a twelve-inch beard in a becoming shade of green, and I am pleased to say that she has made no attempt to visit my colleague since, or, indeed, to leave the house at all. Nevertheless, I wonder if I might trouble you to send me the instructions for a Silencing Spell, as I am tired of listening to her yell at me?_   
_Your most grateful pupil,_   
_D. J. Prod_

* * *

I wrestled with my conscience for several days about whether it was really a good idea to teach him any more magic, but mindful of Roger’s admonition that we would need to please our students to remain employed, I decided at last to do as he asked. It was only a Silencing Spell, after all. What harm could it do?


	3. Sincerely, Severus Prince-Snape

James came of age early in July. As was their usual custom on such occasions, his parents threw an extravagant party; the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team was invited, along with the children of the Potters’ business associates, and of course Lily Evans. She had brought Ether, Samoa, Estella, and Consumption for a visit, and I was pleased to see that the young bunnies were growing well and seemed lively.

The food was excellent and we had a brilliant game of pick-up Quidditch in the garden before the sun went down, but the trouble with large parties is that a number of the people who have to be invited are the people no one can stand, and they are always the ones who stay late. By eleven o’clock in the evening, the four of us had sequestered ourselves in James’ room with a bottle of mead and a bowl of crisps, and were hiding out from the other guests. Mr. Potter was a particular friend of Horace Slughorn, which meant most of his proteges had to be invited. James had vetoed sending an invitation to Severus Snape, but some of the others were almost as bad.

“Mind if I join you?” Lily burst into the room without knocking. 

James hastened to clear a space for her on the floor and pour her a goblet of mead. Sirius glowered, but said nothing.

“Thanks,” said Lily. “I had to get away from Sybill bloody Trelawney. She keeps going on about how I’m going to have a short life and tragic destiny, and advising me to beware of black-haired men – I think I might go out with James just to _spite_ her, honestly.”

At this revelation James nearly dropped his goblet on the floor.

Lily grabbed a handful of crisps. “Don’t get your hopes up. I said ‘might.’” She turned to me. “Oh, and I had a question I meant to ask you. It’s about Consumption. He’s a lovely bunny, but he _will_ eat things he isn’t supposed to. He chewed a pair of my sister’s silk stockings to shreds the other day, right before she meant to wear them to a dance with her boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, although I couldn’t help wondering what she had _expected_ from a rabbit named Consumption.

“Oh, don’t be. My sister’s a total cow. I swear, I don’t know how we can be related to each other.”

Sirius stopped sulking and looked up sharply.

“And Vernon – her boyfriend – he’s even worse. He keeps going on about how he’s a manager at the drill factory with a hundred people under him, and when he says ‘Jump!’ they say ‘How high?’ It’s enough to make you sick – I don’t know why he thinks exploiting the poor workers is anything to be _proud_ of –”

Now it was Sirius’ turn to nearly drop his goblet on the floor. When he recovered himself he topped up Lily’s drink until it was overflowing, and Peter and I looked at each other in some alarm. It looked very much as if we would have to put up with _two_ Marxists from now on.

“Anyway, Remus, what about Consumption?” said Lily, unconscious of the effect she had produced. “I was wondering if you knew any spells that would make him stop, or if you had any advice about training him.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but none of our rabbits have had that problem before, so I don’t really know what to do. Maybe you could take him in to the Magical Menagerie.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I thought you were meant to know all about rabbits with behavior problems. James said something about you and a ‘furry little problem’...”

I tried not to spit mead across the room, not altogether successfully.

“Is something the matter?” asked Lily.

“Er, no. Nothing at all.”

“Give us a joke, Wormtail,” said James quickly.

“I’ve heard a new one, but it’s sort of ... well ... dirty.” Peter half-whispered the last word, eyes fixed on Lily the whole time.

“It’s all right, Peter,” said Lily. “I don’t mind dirty jokes, really.”

“All right. One day Hagrid goes into the Hog’s Head, and he has a steering wheel attached to his ... er ...” Peter glanced at Lily again, and went bright red, “... you know, bits.” 

Peter paused to give us time to contemplate this arresting mental image.

“And old Aberforth says, ‘Do you know you have a steering wheel attached to your, you know, bits?’ And Hagrid says, ‘Yarr, o’ course I know! And I can’t get rid of it! IT’S STEERIN’ ME BALLS!!!’”

We stared at him for a moment, and then Lily started laughing so hard that she inhaled one of her crisps and James had to pound her on the back. “P-peter,” she said when she could speak again, “did you by any chance mean to say _it’s driving me nuts?_ ”

* * *

“That girl’s a bit all right,” said Sirius after she had gone home.

“Told you so,” James and I said at the same time.

Sirius tipped the last few drops of mead into his glass and looked at me. “You’re going to have to tell her about ... about you, you know.”

“No.”

“I think you really do,” said James. “She can’t go on thinking you’re an expert rabbit behaviorologist.”

I saw no reason why Lily couldn’t. In fact, after the third goblet of mead I had started amusing myself by making up all sorts of rabbit lore in case she asked again.

“Besides, she asked what _my_ nickname meant, and I felt all wrong telling her the old story about the Transfiguration accident with the fork.”

“Anyway,” said Sirius, “what are you afraid of? You already said she was all right. ‘One of the nicest people I know’ were your exact words, I think.”

“Fine, I’ll tell her. Give me some time, all right?”

* * *

_Dear Mr Lupin,_   
_I am, alas, the most unhappy of wizards once again, for my wife has taken a terrible revenge upon me after losing her hair. She slipped an Aging Potion into my morning tea (N.B. will you teach me how to brew potions?) and, when it failed to produce results dramatic enough for her tastes, compounded its effects by hitting me with a Hairy-Ears Hex, an Arthritis-Aggravating Spell, and – I blush to say it, but the truth must be owned – an Impotence Curse. Please, please send me that Silencing Spell so that I may use it in self-defense and prevent her from doing more damage. I beg of you._

_From the very depths of desperation, I remain,_   
_Warlock D. J. Prod_

* * *

The envelope containing the Silencing Spell had been sitting sealed on my desk for some days as I debated whether I wanted to embroil myself any further in the Prods’ marital problems, but it was this letter that tipped the balance. An Impotence Curse, I thought, was hitting below the belt in more ways than one.

* * *

_Dear Proffesor,_   
_Thanks so much for teaching me the baking spell! I made some rock cakes with it, and I thought I’d send you some! Your’e the greatest!_   
_Cheers,_   
_Sue_

* * *

The rock cakes were, unfortunately, indistinguishable from actual rocks, but I devoured them as if they were manna from heaven. Sirius received a chocolate cake from Mrs. Figg that seemed to be suffering from the same problem, although the note that came with it said that she had been forced to bake it without magic:

_... I do not blame you, dear boy, but when I tried to use the cooking spell from your last letter, the oven blew up and I was unable to clear the smoke out of the house without hours of help from both the fire department and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Perhaps it would be better if we tried something simpler and less hazardous, such as a spell to turn a matchstick into a needle._   
_Yours truly,_   
_Arabella Figg_

* * *

“We covered that in first year,” Sirius grumbled. “On the first _day_ of first year.”

“Well, maybe she needs to start at the beginning,” I said.

Apparently she really needed to start _before_ the beginning, because the flattened and twisted metal object she enclosed in her next letter was like neither a matchstick, nor a needle, nor anything else on earth. “I give up,” said Sirius crossly. “How come _your_ students learn stuff and mine never do?”

“Maybe I’m a naturally good teacher.”

“ _Maybe_ mine are the biggest Squibs who ever lived.” Sirius looked in the envelope again and frowned. “There’s another letter." After a glance at the handwriting, he added, "But it’s not from Mrs. Figg. Roger must have put it in the wrong envelope by mistake.”

* * *

_Miss Jones:_   
_It is my considered opinion that you are the most talentless excuse for a witch ever to wield a wand, and if you never attempt to inflict a Stimulating Solution on the world again, it will be too soon. Nevertheless, I shall attempt to critique your pathetic effort in the hope that you may learn something, although I strongly suspect your case is hopeless. Your first error was failing to clean your cauldron properly, which you then compounded by placing it over the flame before you added any of the liquid ingredients. It would be a happy day for the science of potion-making if you had blown up yourself and everything in the immediate vicinity, but I suppose I can hardly be so lucky._

Sirius whistled. “Man, and I thought _my_ students were bad.”

_Thirdly, it is a mystery to me how you managed to read ‘lettuce’ for ‘lacewing’ in the third line of the recipe, as most five-year-olds could have told you the difference..._

“It isn’t a mystery to _me_ ,” I said. The handwriting was tiny and cramped. As I read over Sirius’ shoulder, I had to squint to be sure what it said.

_... but for future reference, lettuce is a vegetable, not an insect. It is green and leafy. You may find that you have a great deal in common with it, as it is also tasteless, devoid of intellect, and utterly useless in potions._

_After you add the dragonwort root, stir three times. As a reminder, the only numerals you should ever use when you count to three are one, two, and three, in that order._

“Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of thy counting shall be three.”

“What?” said Sirius.

“Never mind.”

_I have no idea how you managed to get out of primary school without knowing this, but your teacher ought to have been sent to prison for fraud._

“By that logic,” I said, “shouldn’t _he_ be sent to prison for fraud if she doesn’t learn how to do potions?”

“I don’t think anything is ever his fault. He sounds like that sort of person.”

_Finally, you asked me for my advice on removing the black sludge from the cauldron. After examining the residue, I can only suggest that you build a Time-Turner, go back to last Thursday, and take the potion off the flame fully an hour before you actually did so. While you’re at it, you may as well murder your grandfather and prevent your conception. The world would be infinitely better off without you._

“Did he really say what I think he just said?” said Sirius.

“I think so. Look at the signature.”

_Please do not bother me again._

_Sincerely,_   
_Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

Sirius snorted. “ _Prince-Snape?_ Putting on a few airs, isn’t he?” 

The Princes were a well-known wizarding family that had made their fortune at the beginning of the last century, manufacturing Gobstones. People like Sirius’s parents rather looked down their noses at them, but nobody could deny that they had been wildly successful. Several members of the Wizengamot and the Hogwarts Board of Governors were Princes, or their in-laws or cousins.

“Maybe he really is related to the Princes,” I suggested.

“And he goes around in grey underwear and works for a correspondence course? Not a chance in hell.”

It occurred to me that perhaps Snape was in the same position as Sirius with regard to his family, but I had a feeling Sirius wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, so I stayed on safer ground. “I wouldn’t care to be one of his students, anyway.”

Sirius closed his eyes, and a perfectly bland and angelic expression stole over his face. I knew that expression only too well. It generally heralded the advent of some scheme that was liable to land us in detention for the rest of our natural lives.

“... Padfoot?”

Sirius’ eyes flew open, and he grinned. “Well, that’s too bad, because we are going to be his students. Lots and lots of his students. And we’re going to make his blood pressure shoot through the _roof_ , because Mrs. Figg and that Prewett bloke are going to look like Professor Dumbledore compared to us.”

Considering that Mr. Prewett had ended up in St. Mungo’s with beads lodged up his nose and ears after Sirius had tried to teach him how to use a magical abacus, this was a rather alarming comparison. “Um,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s only – Well, I’ve sort of gone off baiting Snape. If you want to know the truth.”

He folded up the letter and sighed. “Moony, this isn’t anything _like_ what happened last year."

“I know,” I said because it seemed to be expected, and paced over to the window.

“For which I am honestly sorry, and if I could go back and undo it all, I would.” He looked up at me, grey eyes wide and unexpectedly earnest. “Or at least, I would if there was any way to – you know – ” His voice trailed off, and I knew without asking what was going through his head: by now, the events of last autumn had led to a complicated web of consequences that included Sirius walking away from his family, James growing up considerably, and Lily warming up to James even though she knew nothing of what had passed between us. It was impossible to imagine unraveling all those threads now, and just as impossible to imagine things going back to the way they used to be. It hit me for the first time that Sirius had chosen _us_ , over his family and his inheritance and his whole life, and it didn’t really matter what had happened before that.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s do it. For old times’ sake.”

He caught my eye and grinned again. “Knew you’d be up for it.”

* * *

_Oi, Wiz!_   
_I’m in kind of a tight spot right now and I gotta keep one step ahead of the goblins, but I dunno how to cover my tracks and I could do with a refresher course in Disguise and Concealment, know what I mean? Prince-Snape is an old mate of mine and he owes me a few favours, so if you could slide me on over to him, that’d be good. Will pay double once a few of my business ventures sort themselves out._   
_Cheers,_   
_Jake “Shifty” Smith_

* * *

_Dear Kwikspell,_   
_It has always been my dream to become a fully qualified wizard, but I was expelled from thirteen different schools of magic in nine years, and I had to leave the last before sitting the N.E.W.T.s as a result of some unfortunate spell damage to a classroom. (The Headmaster said he regretted it greatly, but he dared not place me in a sealed room with the examiners for their own safety. He suggested I pursue distance education.) Can you help? I have heard that you employ a tutor named Prince-Snape who can work wonders._   
_Regards,_   
_Bartimaeus Bugleblower_

* * *

_Dear Mr Harbottle,_   
_I have been asked to conjure flowers for the church bazaar and was too embarrassed to say no, but it has become all too painfully clear that I need some help with Charms and Transfiguration. I am prepared to pay generously for the services of an instructor with tact, discretion, and excellent interior decorating skills. If I may, I would like to request Severus Prince-Snape. I hear he is one of your best._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Temperance Flowerdew Yeardley_

_P.S. As a small token of appreciation, I have enclosed a copy of my latest children’s book, ‘Little Lucy the Lonely Lamb.’ Please pass this on to Mr Prince-Snape._

* * *

Peter, who was good at drawing, did the illustrations for “Little Lucy the Lonely Lamb,” and I wrote the edifying and touching story of Lucy, who had the bad luck to be born with sparkling pink wool. The other little lambs were jealous because she was so much prettier and nicer than they were, and they bullied poor Lucy until her sensitive temperament drove her to throw herself off a cliff. Fortunately, a fairy with shimmering purple wings swooped in and rescued her, and she lived happily ever after.

Sirius tested the efficacy of this narrative by reading it to his cousin Nymphadora, who, being a sensible child, promptly threw up.


	4. Me Tarzan, You Owl

I opened my next letter from D. J. Prod with trepidation. A photograph of an enormous, shaggy-haired ox with a distinctly grumpy expression fluttered out of the envelope and fell on the floor. Mystified, I picked it up and read the letter that accompanied it.

* * *

_... I endeavored to use the Silencing Spell you taught me, but upon closer examination of your letter, I believe I may have misread your handwriting. Instead of ‘Taceo’ I mistakenly used the incantation ‘Yakeo.’ I am pleased to say that my wife was immediately Transfigured into a Yak, and we have got along beautifully ever since. I enclose a photograph and my profuse thanks for your wonderful tutelage. I have written to Mr Harbottle to terminate the lessons, as all of my problems have been solved, but if you are ever in Didsbury, I should like to buy you a drink._   
_With warmest regards,_   
_Warlock D. J. Prod_

* * *

Utterly horrified at this development, I thrust the letter and the photograph into Sirius’ hands. “Bloody hell, what should I do now?”

“What should you do about what? He said you’d solved all his problems, didn’t he?”

“He. Turned. His. Wife. Into. A. Yak. I’d say that counts as a pretty big problem!”

Sirius shrugged. “Let’s face it, Moony, some women are just better off as yaks. If somebody turned my cousin Bella into one, I don’t think anyone would complain. Least of all her husband.”

“D. J. sounded like a pretty unpleasant character himself.”

“So’s Rodolphus. Case in point. Unpleasant people tend to marry other unpleasant people, and if you’re going to do that, getting turned into yaks is sort of an occupational hazard.”

“Wellll...”

“This’ll make you feel better. Look what I got from old Snivellus.”

* * *

_Mr Smith:_   
_First of all, I refuse to address you as ‘Shifty,’ and I am not your ‘mate.’ You will address me with a proper measure of professional respect; namely, as ‘sir,’ or ‘professor.’_

Sirius slapped his hand palm-down against the table in indignation. “He’s seventeen! Where does he think he gets off?”

_Secondly, if you are serious about improving your Disguise and Concealment – which I doubt – I recommend that you read 725 Simple Shape-Shifting Strategies by Septimius Stratagem. I have no time to waste on pupils who do not intend to pay in the immediate future, but I understand that there is an institution called a “public library” to which the destitute may have recourse._

_You might want to get a grammar book as well. You appear to need one._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Professor Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

_Mr Bugleblower:_   
_I have inspected the matchstick that you attempted to Transfigure into a needle. The result shows no evidence of magical talent or power, but you may be able to foist it off on the Museum of Modern Art if they are in a particularly credulous mood._

_In response to your inane query, ‘Can you help?’ I can only say that God may be able to help you, but evidently He has chosen not to. I strongly urge you to pursue some other career than magic, but if you must persist in this foolish course you have chosen, I suggest you begin with something less taxing to your powers. Accordingly, I enclose a set of instructions for raising Flobberworms._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

_Miss Yeardley:_   
_Never write another children’s book again._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

Heartened by these responses, we began another batch of letters and decided to invent some additional students. It was at this point that we encountered an unexpected practical problem: we were running short of owls. My own family owl, Howland, was a nondescript mop of grey-brown feathers, and we could send him to the Kwikspell office several times before anybody noticed anything amiss, as long as my parents weren’t using him at the time. But we couldn’t continue to do this indefinitely, and the only other post-owl we had access to was James’s Whitey, an enormous snowy bird who would have been conspicuous anywhere. We’d already made him deliver the Bugleblower letters, so it seemed too risky to use him again.

“You could dye Whitey,” suggested Peter, who had come up to visit James for the day.

The trouble with Peter was that when he came out with a plan like that, there was never any way to tell whether he was being really clever or really idiotic without actually trying the experiment.

“Good thinking, Wormtail,” said Sirius in a voice that was carefully poised between sarcasm and seriousness. “Why don’t you do it and let us know how it works?”

“Me?” Peter’s voice took on a shrill note. “Why me? Why do I always get stuck doing these things?”

“He’s right, you know,” I said. “He always does, and it isn’t fair.”

“All right,” said James. “We’ll draw straws. Fair enough for you?”

“As long as you don’t cheat,” said Peter darkly.

A few minutes later, I was staring at the shortest straw and silently cursing the contrary impulse that had made me stick up for Peter.

“All right, Moony?” said Sirius with more than a trace of a smirk.

“Fine. I’m just, er, thinking what would be the best way to do this.”

The others were still smirking. Resolutely, I strode into the bathroom with Whitey on one arm and a bottle of Mrs. Potter’s Hair-Colouring Potion in my other hand.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, alternately swearing and muttering healing spells at the places where Whitey’s talons had slashed into my arms. Brown water mingled with the blood; brown dye oozed from my hair, and streaked my robes; the Potters’ good guest towels were splotched with brown. In fact, everything was brown and dripping except Whitey, who was perched above me on the showerhead, hooting angrily. It was obviously the owl equivalent of the sort of language I had been using myself, except I didn’t see what _he_ had to swear about. _I_ didn’t have three-inch fingernails of steel.

I decided it was time to take control of the situation. I stripped down to my underpants, drew myself up to my full height, and announced, “Me Tarzan. You owl. Me bigger than you. You do what I say.”

Whitey didn’t like it – he squawked and flapped and inflicted several more wounds with his talons – but I wrapped him up in my robes and forced him into the bathtub. His wings beat the water and splattered the room from floor to ceiling, but they also splattered Whitey, so it was all to the good.

“Meet your new owl,” I announced triumphantly when I opened the door at last. “Brownie.”

James grinned. “Nicely done, O King of the Jungle.”

Abruptly, I became conscious of the fact that my three best friends were sniggering and giving each other Knowing Looks, and I was still wearing nothing but my underwear and a great deal of Hair-Colouring Potion. “You ... you ... I didn’t know you were listening at the door!”

“‘Course we were, mate,” said Sirius. “It was better than the Wizarding Wireless Comedy Hour.”

“Shit.” Brownie flapped down the hallway, scattering drops of Hair-Colouring Potion. “There goes the carpet. And your mum’s going to need some new guest towels, Prongs.” Another unpleasant thought occurred to me as I spoke, and I shook out the brown-splattered bundle under my arms. “ _My_ mum’s going to kill me when she sees my clothes.”

“Did you drain the water out of the bathtub yet?” asked James.

“No. Why?”

“Then not to worry.” James waved his hand expansively, as if a set of nearly-new robes was nothing to him – as, indeed, it wasn’t. “Go and have a swim in the river, and leave everything to me.”

“You’re not going to give me some of yours, are you? Because I really can’t accept –”

“Nah, I know you wouldn’t. But I’ve got another idea that’s almost as good.”

* * *

“Those are nice robes,” said my mother at dinner. “I like that shade of brown. Are they new?”

“Secondhand-new. I bought them with my salary from Kwikspell.”

“Not a bad choice,” she said, inspecting the fabric, “but next time, you might want to take a closer look at the sleeves before you buy. It looks like the last owner had a very aggressive owl.”

Halfway through the meal, a note arrived from Mrs. Potter thanking me for the new set of towels. By coincidence, _they_ were a lovely shade of brown too, and she wondered how I had matched her hair so exactly.

* * *

_Hiya Sev!_   
_How are you? My friend Suzy Jones says you’re the best teacher ever! which is why I’m writing directly to you instead of to The Wiz. My name is Mystii, well actually it’s Misty, but I think this spelling is more unique, don’t you? I’m twenty-two and from America. I’m sending you a picture so you can see what I look like. Do you like my new swimsuit? To tell you a little more about me, my hobbies are chewing bubble gum and going to nightclubs, and my favorite magicians are Merlin and The Amazing Kreskin. I hope you can teach me to be as good as them. Well, bye for now._   
_Love & Kisses,_   
_Mystii_

* * *

James was rather upset that Sirius sacrificed a page from the _Quidditch Illustrated_ swimsuit edition, but we persuaded him that it was for a good cause.

* * *

_Dear Mr Harbottle,_   
_I am writing to you because the Mother Superior of my convent has requested that I study magic. We are a teaching order, and we have many young witches and wizards in the convent school who require instruction at a primary level. I realise that I am rather older than the average student, but I need only learn enough to teach the children the basics. I shall work very hard, and I hope that I shall improve with God’s help, and that you will not be too impatient with my deficiencies. I have heard that Mr Prince-Snape is a stern but effective teacher, though of course I should be pleased to be placed with any instructor you see fit._   
_In Him,_   
_Sister Mary Perpetua_   
_Convent of St. Kilda_

_P.S. I enclose an example of my spellwork. It is not very good, so please be so kind as to tell me how I can improve._

* * *

“Let’s make this one really _good_ at magic,” I suggested as I signed Sister Mary Perpetua’s letter with a flourish, “just to mess with his head.”

Sirius concentrated for a moment, waved his wand in the air, and conjured up an elegant little statue of St. Mungo. We tied the statue to one of Brownie’s legs and the letter to the other, and sent him off into the clear blue sky over Godric’s Hollow.

* * *

_Mr Bugleblower:_   
_I have examined the ‘Flobberworm’ specimen you sent to me in your last letter. The reason why it refuses to eat or grow is quite simple: It is a rubber band. I wish you had half as good an excuse for being an idiot._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

_Misty:_   
_First of all, I insist that you furnish me with your surname, if such things exist in America, and that you refrain from addressing me as ‘Sev.’ This is not a nightclub or a bubble-gum chew; we are on a professional footing here, if you are capable of understanding such a concept. For the same reason, do not send me any more photographs of you in your bathing attire. It makes you look like a beached hippopotamus anyway._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Professor S. Prince-Snape_

* * *

As “Mystii” was in fact Rosalind Antigone Bungs, one of the most attractive Keepers ever to grace the goalposts of the Holyhead Harpies, I thought this was rather unfair of Professor Prince-Snape. But there is, of course, no accounting for tastes.

He had not answered the third letter, the one from Sister Mary Perpetua, so I decided to send off a reminder:

* * *

_Dear Professor Prince-Snape,_   
_I understood from Mr Harbottle that I would hear from you within the week, but perhaps I misunderstood, or your letter has gone astray. If not – I do not mean to pry, but may I ask whether you are in any sort of trouble? Please do not hesitate to let me know if I can, in my small way, offer you any assistance._

_If, however, you are simply displeased with the statue of St. Mungo, I agree that it may not have been one of my better efforts, so I have enclosed an additional sample of my work. I should be most grateful for any criticism you can offer._   
_Sister Mary Perpetua_

I Transfigured an extra leaf of parchment into a delicate little angel, and sent it off.


	5. One Must Be Open to All Manner of Things in Life

I had a fair amount of time to carry on our letter-writing campaign, since I had lost both of my own students by the end of July. D. J. Prod, as I have already mentioned, cancelled his lessons after successfully Transfiguring his wife into a yak; Sue Hurdabirg met a rather more spectacular demise at the end of a hot and boring day.

The Potters had gone away to the seaside for a week and taken Sirius with them. My mother had likewise left town for an academic conference in Tibet. My father, who was inclined toward overprotectiveness, insisted that I was not well enough to go flying or do much of anything else, despite the fact that it was three days after the full moon and I protested (not entirely truthfully) that I felt fine. So I was left with nothing much to do until Peter came over in the afternoon, and even then there didn’t seem to be very much to do. We tried playing Scrabble, but unfortunately, Peter had never really caught on to the rules, and all I seemed to be able to draw was consonants. If I had been playing with anyone else, I should have suspected him of cheating, but Peter still hadn’t got the hang of wordless magic and the idea of him cheating at Scrabble without anybody noticing was absurd.

The game ended when I spelled the word DO along the bottom edge of the board, and he countered with:

W  
E  
NERDOG

“What’s _that_ supposed to be?”

“It means a dachshund. One that’s going around a corner.”

“You’re not allowed to do that!”

“Show me the place in the rules where it says I can’t.” (Which, of course, it didn’t, since the inventors of Scrabble could not possibly have anticipated the existence of a mind like Peter’s.)

“It’s not even spelled right. It’s missing an I.”

“Right. It’s a _blind_ dachshund turning a corner.”

I laughed and threw a tile at him. “You’re mad.”

“So do I get to count it as a word?” Peter asked, and started writing down the score before I could say yes or no.

“Of course you don’t! Why would you get to count it as a word?”

“It made you laugh.”

“So?”

“James and Sirius always let me count things for points if it makes them laugh.”

This was true, I realized. It had been true since the very first game of pickup Quidditch we had played in first year, when we discovered that the closest thing Peter had to a flying-related talent was making comical faces when he fell off, and nobody had ever questioned it. I was hot, tired, and rather unwell, and suddenly I was heartily sick of it. I judged that there was no reason why Peter _should_ get free points in Scrabble. He might not be brilliant at magic, but he wasn’t stupid or a bad speller.

“I don’t care what James and Sirius do,” I said crossly. “I say it’s cheating. Besides, you ought to have more pride.”

He sniggered. “Pride about what? Being able to spell two-letter words?”

“No, about not letting them treat you like a little kid or a mascot!”

“I AM NOT A MASCOT!” To my surprise, he was really, genuinely angry.

“I didn’t say you were. I just said don’t bloody behave like one.”

Peter ended up going home in an extreme state of the sulks, leaving me alone to clean up the board; but I felt exhausted and bored and already a bit guilty, and decided that I couldn’t be bothered. I ended up idly playing with the Scrabble tiles instead. I picked out the letters that spelled SUE HURDABIRG and began moving them around...

U GRAB RUSH DIE

I RUE BARD HUGS

RUB SUE HARD IG

My hand froze as I pushed the last tile into place. Slowly, I rearranged the letters to spell one last anagram:

RUBEUS HAGRID

Oh no. It hadn’t been a good day to begin with, but it had just got about ten thousand times worse.

And it got worse still when I thought of the smirk I had occasionally seen on Sirius’ face when I had sat down, blushing, to pen another letter to Miss Hurdabirg. He knew. Oh yes, he must have known all along. I’d seen him solve half a dozen anagram clues from the _Daily Prophet_ crossword before most people had time to get the paper open.

I grabbed the two-way mirror that sat on my dresser and snapped, “Sirius Black!”

“What’s up, Moony?” Sirius answered after the third or fourth time I’d called his name. He was obviously enjoying his holiday with the Potters, even if they were paying for it with filthy capitalist lucre. He looked sunburnt, windblown, and carefree.

I started to explain what was up, but I didn’t get very far before he burst out laughing.

“Padfoot. Do you realize that I’ve been _having sexual fantasies about Rubeus Hagrid_ all summer? This is NOT AMUSING!”

“No, it isn’t, mate, it’s bloody hilarious. James and I were taking bets about when you’d catch on.”

“Well, I hope you lost,” I said. I threw the mirror aside and stomped downstairs to get a drink of water and some fresh air.

My father was in the kitchen; I hadn’t expected to find him there. He usually spent the afternoons in his Potions lab and emerged only when somebody reminded him about dinner, so I had thought I was alone in the house. Reluctantly, I stopped stomping.

“You are of age,” he said. “Come and have a drink with me.”

“All right,” I said, although I didn’t particularly want to. He was talking strangely and gazing at me with a peculiar, intense expression that I found unnerving, and I wondered what I had done to warrant such scrutiny. Had he somehow discovered the joke we were playing on Snape? If so, why didn’t he say so?

“It will have to be a strong drink, I think,” he said, rummaging among the dusty and disorderly collection of half-empty bottles that constituted my parents’ liquor cupboard. “I have it, we shall have cognac. I have never drunk cognac in the afternoon before. It will be a change. One must be open to all manner of things in life.”

He looked at me as though he expected me to recognize that this last statement held some sort of profound and private meaning. I nodded, not knowing what else to say.

“ _Salut!_ ”

“Cheers, Dad.”

I had never drunk cognac at all, and one sip convinced me that I hadn’t been missing much. I tried not to cough or gag.

Dad, who was not ordinarily much of a drinker, drained his glass in three swallows and poured himself a second generous measure of cognac. I poured about half of my own drink into one of the potted plants while his back was turned.

“ _Eh bien_ , as I have said, one must be open to all manner of things. Me, I thought when I was young that I would have a very ordinary, simple life. I would teach at Beauxbatons and pass the holidays in the little village in Provence where I was born. I did not plan that it should be a life full of Dark wizards and werewolves, or that I should be mocked by my former colleagues and called a ‘mad scientist.’ Nor that I should fall in love with an Englishwoman and have a very English son who has a slight problem with the moon. But so it goes. Sometimes the things we do not plan are for the best, yes?” He smiled at me, but there was still something faintly strained in his expression.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said cautiously, and took another tiny sip of my drink. I could not for the life of me see where this was going.

“And now that I am older, I have often looked forward to having grandchildren. I did not expect them for many years, of course, but I have sometimes thought, someday my son will meet a nice girl, and when I am very old I shall have a few young ones to listen to my stories.”

I felt even more at sea. Did he think that I had got some girl pregnant? This seemed unlikely, as I could not imagine how he might have got that impression, but I couldn’t think of any other reason why he would be talking about grandchildren. “Dad, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I –”

He held out a hand. “Silence, hear everything I have to say before you speak. I am telling you what I have thought and hoped in the past, but in the end, that does not matter. What matters is that you are my son, and that you should be happy.” He tossed back what was left of his second drink and began a third. “This ... Rubeus Hagrid, if he is what makes you happy, that is a good thing and I should be pleased to meet him one day.”

The light dawned with such clarity and force that it caused me to spit cognac halfway across the living-room floor. My father pounded me on the back, and then, being slightly tipsy, enfolded me in a fierce hug. He was clearly one step away from loudly proclaiming his love for his gay lycanthropic son, and I did what I could to head off such an embarrassing declaration.

“Dad. I think you misunderstood something you overheard. Sirius and I were –” For a split second I contemplated the prospect of explaining about the Swedish model, and decided that this was absolutely impossible. “We were rehearsing a play.”

I watched as his entire universe rearranged itself. “You ... are going to be ... in a play?”

“Yes.” This seemed the simplest of all of the possible responses.

“With Sirius?”

“Yes.”

“But that is wonderful! My congratulations! Shall we have another drink to celebrate?”

“No! Not yet, I mean. It’s, er, very experimental drama. Sirius just wrote it. I don’t think it’s actually going to be produced.”

“Ah, Sirius _wrote_ it. Now I understand it all. Is it a Communist play?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“I see.” My father wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You are a very good friend, Remus.”

“You don’t have to go see it if you don’t want.”

“You are a good son, too.” 

“Thank you,” I said, as this seemed by far the simplest answer, and I tried not to think about how many layers of deceit had led up to this moment.

* * *

_Dear Mr Prince-Snape,_   
_I tried out the interior decorating spell you recommended as your favourite, but it seems to have turned the entire church BLACK!!! And there are dead roses and houseflies everywhere! The bazaar is tomorrow morning, and the place looks AWFUL!!! I must have misunderstood the instructions. Please tell me what I can do to fix it, and I will be forever in your debt._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Temperance Flowerdew Yeardley_

* * *

_Miss Yeardley:_   
_You have not misunderstood the instructions. That is the kind of interior decoration I like, and if you dislike it, that is not my problem. Stop bothering me._   
_Sincerely,_   
_Severus Prince-Snape_

* * *

_Hi, Moony!_   
_Guess what? I’ve been named Head Boy. (I don’t know what McGonagall was smoking, but we need to find out how we can get some.) Lily’s Head Girl, and my mum wants to have a party for the two of us next Friday. Hope you can make it. (Maybe I’ll invite Hagrid so you two can declare your love for each other in person, ha ha.)_   
_Cheers,_   
_James_   
_P.S. I think Lily will be hanging out with us a lot next year, and I really think it’s time that you told her what we talked about telling her the last time. You know what I mean._

* * *

_Hi, James,_   
_Congratulations, and tell your mum I’ll be there. (I was going to elope to Sweden with Hagrid, as you have probably guessed, but we can put it off until next week.)_   
_Remus_   
_P.S. Later._

* * *

It had been a much better party than the last one. Sirius and Peter and I had patched up our various quarrels, and James had persuaded his mother to keep the guest list down to a bare minimum, so nobody had to be fawned over by Professor Slughorn or dodge Sybill Trelawney. It was just the five of us and James’ parents, although Mrs. Potter kept asking Lily whether she was _sure_ her sister wouldn’t want to come.

Sensibly, the elder Potters left us to our own devices after dinner and turned a blind eye to the extra bottle of wine that Sirius had sneaked out of the pantry. We were all feeling quite cozy and happy when, inevitably, the jokes began.

“What howls at the moon and never has to be ironed?” James asked.

“I don’t know,” said Lily, batting her eyelashes at him. “What?”

“A wash-and-wearwolf,” said James.

I began to have an awful sinking feeling about where this joke-telling session was going, which was confirmed when Sirius began, “A wolf walks into a bar and says ‘Shit! Bollocks! Arse!’”

Peter looked faintly scandalized at the idea of using this sort of language in front of Lily, and even James made a gesture that was intended to signal Sirius to tone it down. I was frantically signaling him to stop as well, for an entirely different reason.

Sirius sailed forth, nothing daunted. “So the barman says, ‘Excuse me, but we don’t allow foul language in here.’ And the wolf says, ‘I can’t bloody well help it – don’t you see this tuft on the end of my tail?’ ‘Yeah, what’s that got to do with anything?’ says the barman. And the wolf says, ‘It means I’m a swearwolf.’”

James groaned, and Lily giggled. 

Peter followed this with his own mangled offering (“Why did the werewolf cross the road?” “To buy a copy of the Chinese newspaper, although I, personally, prefer the _Daily Prophet_ ”). I glared at James, feeling that he was clearly the ringleader in all this, and he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “If you don’t like this way, do it your own way, mate.”

“What?” said Lily.

“Nothing,” said James.

“Would you like to go outside and get some fresh air?” I asked her.

“All right,” she said, still giggling a little.

I followed her out on the patio. I felt shaky at the knees, and my knuckles were wrapped tightly around one of the Potters’ wineglasses. Sirius touched me on the arm as I passed.

Godric’s Hollow spread out before us, a cluster of dark little houses huddled sleepily against the great rolling hills and a river that shone faintly in the starlight. I drew a few deep breaths and felt better.

“It’s a pretty night, isn’t it?” said Lily. “I think I like it better when the moon isn’t out, don’t you?”

I stopped breathing again. “Lily,” I said, clutching desperately at the wineglass, “I think it’s time that you and I had a conversation ... because otherwise I think my friends are about to have it for us.”


	6. Expelled for Terminal Imbecility

As I cast about for what to say next, I saw that Lily's eyes were bright with mischief. “Don’t tell me. You’re a were-stegosaurus and you club people with your tail every full moon, and you have a brain the size of a pea. Is that it?”

I had to laugh in spite of myself. “Well, no. Not _exactly_.”

“Well, just remember that you _could_ be. Things can always get worse.”

“How long have you known?”

“I’d been wondering for a while, but I wasn’t positive until tonight. You should have seen the look on your face when I said that about the moon.”

“You’re – you’re not afraid to be out here with me?”

“Why? Do you turn into half a wolf at the half-moon or something, and they just forgot to mention it in the textbooks?”

“No, of course not. It’s just, well, there’s a lot of ignorance about, and –”

“You don’t need to talk to me about ignorance,” said Lily. “I’m Muggle-born. We’re so supremely ignorant we don’t even know _how_ to be ignorant, and that’s why we rush in where angels fear to tread.”

There was a definite note of bitterness in this speech, and I wasn’t sure for a moment how to respond to it. “I – Lily, none of us feels that way, I assure you –”

“You’re sweet, but you needn’t bother denying it. It’s true. We _don’t_ know any of the things witches and wizards are supposed to know. It’s been six years and I’m still putting my foot in it on a regular basis.”

“Lily, you _aren’t_. Not with me, anyway.”

“Well, maybe sometimes ignorance is bliss. Hmm? My sister’s boyfriend seems to think so, anyway.”

“I don’t think so,” I said positively. “Or at least, I’m glad you know everything now.”

“I’m glad you told me. With a little help from your friends, anyway.” She giggled again, softly. “Wash-and-wearwolf.”

I looked at her eyes shining in the light from the house and thought she was one of the nicest girls I knew.

“Oy, Moony,” called a voice from the doorway. “What are you doing out there? Trying to steal my girlfriend?”

“I AM NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND, JAMES ETHELRED POTTER!”

James burst out of the house. “Ethelred? ETHELRED?! _That_ is a low blow, madam!”

Lily squealed as he tackled her, and the two of them streaked down the hillside, shrieking and pummeling each other, and ran out into the vast summer night.

* * *

_Dear Sister Mary Perpetua,_  
_Please excuse my tardiness in writing to you. I have been unsure how to approach your case, because all of my other students are dunderheads and you, I think, are one of the most gifted natural magicians I have encountered. May I ask how old you are, by the way, and where your nunnery is located? I suppose you know that there is a long and venerable tradition of magical convent education which began with the great Morgan le Fay, and I am exceedingly pleased to meet one of her modern-day successors._

I suppressed a chortle. Snape’s reply may have been long in coming, but it promised already to be worth the wait.

_It is evident from the samples you have sent me that you have the potential to be a great artist as well as a great witch. Are you familiar at all with the work of Master Julio Romano, the great magical painter and sculptor? I recommend that you study his work; you will find that it bears a certain resemblance to your own, though your spellwork is naturally, as yet, raw and untutored. I may, I hope, be able to provide you with some technical pointers, although I cannot presume to teach an understanding of the true essence and spirit of magic, which you already have in abundance._

Several pages of technical advice followed, which I have not reproduced due to their length and dryness. Snape was not sparing in his critiques of the two pieces Sirius and I had so hastily conjured up – indeed, he seemed to have noticed every minor flaw – but his tone was entirely different from that of his previous letters. In fact, it verged on friendly, and I began to feel faintly disquieted about the whole business. This was uncanny.

_As a final note, I should add that the statuette of St. Mungo, in particular, seems to have sprung from the soul of a witch rather than that of a nun, but that (in my opinion) is no bad thing..._

I couldn’t wait to tell Sirius he had the soul of a witch, until I realized that Snape had made no such comment about my angel and therefore, by implication, I probably had the soul of a nun. Perhaps I wouldn’t mention it after all.

_... Are you certain the religious vocation is right for you, because there are many ways your talents might be put to use in the magical world? But no: I apologise for being both intrusive and crass. From your letters, it is plain that you are a good person and very spiritual._

_You asked whether I was in any sort of trouble. I must tell you frankly that I am not a happy man. I do not get along with my father and I have consequentially been forced to take this position with the Kwikspell Correspondence Course, which is far beneath the sort of life I should have been born to. There are many people in the world who wish me ill and some who have even tried to kill me; I am, besides, embroiled in an entanglement that may prove extremely dangerous, although I cannot speak about its exact nature. Seldom has it been my good fortune to meet a truly understanding soul and, indeed, I doubted whether there were any such in the world. But in looking at your angel, I find my faith renewed..._

I let the letter fall from my hand. It was all too obvious that Snape had fallen into the same trap with Sister Mary Perpetua as I had with Sue Hurdabirg, and although the thought of Snivellus falling for a nun who was really a couple of not-at-all-saintly teenage boys was ridiculous, I couldn’t find it altogether funny. James and Sirius would have found it funny, but that was the whole problem. The thought of a couple of Slytherins sniggering over my own earnestly-penned letters to Sue made me shudder. No, I would have to keep this letter from my friends.

Keeping up the pretense, I thought, would also be cruel, but I wasn’t sure how best to end it. I could write back in the person of Sister Mary Perpetua and claim to be ninety years old and part dwarf, but what if he decided that was all to the good? Anybody who turned up his nose at Rosalind Antigone Bungs and decided to pursue a nun had got to have _very_ unusual tastes. I could take offense at some of the things he’d written (and honestly, I thought a real nun would be more than justified in doing so), but that seemed scarcely less cruel than leading him on. Or I could write back as myself and confess everything, but that would be incredibly humiliating for _both_ of us.

In the end, I chose the simple and curt option:

_Dear Mr Prince-Snape,_  
_Due to a variety of circumstances, I have revoked my decision to allow Sister Mary Perpetua to study magic. You will not be hearing from her again._  
_Sister Winnifrede_  
_Mother Superior, Convent of St. Kilda_

* * *

“You wanted to see us, Roger-the-Wiz?” Sirius asked cautiously.

It was nearly summer’s end, and we had been called into the Kwikspell office for the first time since our interview. The premises in Cleric Alley were still painted bright yellow and orange, but the walls were looking a little faded in the hazy heat of August, and even Roger’s teeth twinkled less brilliantly than before.

“Oh yes.” Roger ran a hand through his sleek, shiny hair with less enthusiasm than was his wont. “I’m not sure how to say this, boys, but it doesn’t look like Mrs. Figg and Mr. Prewett are making much progress, and I believe _your_ two students quit weeks ago and you haven’t brought in any new ones, is that right?” Rather than giving me a chance to answer, he pressed onwards. “I’ve got to run a business here, as I’m sure you appreciate, and we pride ourselves on having only the top staff, people who can really help us build up a clientele, so – well, the long and the short of it is, we’re going to have to let both of you go. It’s nothing personal.”

Sirius and I exchanged a look. “We haven’t been working for you very long,” Sirius pointed out. “Can’t we have a few more weeks to learn the ropes?”

“Well, ordinarily I might think that was a pretty fair excuse,” said Roger, with a slight emphasis on the last word, “but there’s another lad who started at the same time you did, and he’s really at the top of his game. Brings in three times as many new students as anybody else, in half the time, and they all ask for him by name. If you want to know what you should have been doing all along, you should take a look at young Prince-Snape.”

“He’s a good teacher, then?” I asked Roger in what I hoped was a noncommittal voice, though it came out sounding rather strained. “You’ve read his letters and talked to his students?”

“Nah, can’t be bothered. But they wouldn’t be lining up to join his course if he weren’t that good – that’s _my_ motto – follow the money if you want to know who can teach. The free market never lies.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “ _Actually_ ,” he said loudly, “according to Marx and Engels, page three-hundred-and-seventy-one –”

Roger gave him a pitying look. “There, boy,” he said, “there’s your problem. The people who take our course don’t want to be lectured about Socialism and all that dry stuff, they want to be entertained. Give them a little song and dance to make the lessons go down, that’s what the All-New Fail-Safe Quick-Result Easy-Learn Conjuring by Correspondence method is all about. It’s plain to see that this Prince-Snape fellow knows all about that.”

I tried to imagine Severus Snape doing a little song and dance for the entertainment of his students, and failed miserably.

“He’s really a top instructor,” Roger enthused. “I’ve never seen anything like it – and at his age, too. I’m going to recommend him for a position at Hogwarts when he’s a bit older. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to send out the bills.”

“Bills?” I asked.

“To the students. They go out every month.”

* * *

_Dear Madame Yeardley,_  
_Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons._  
_Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle_

* * *

_Dear Mr Bugleblower,_  
_Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons._  
_Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle_

* * *  
_Dear Miss Mystii,_  
_Please remit 1 Galleon 9 Sickles for your first two weeks of lessons._  
_Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle_

* * *

_Please remit ... please remit ... please remit..._

I clutched my forehead and groaned. “How in Merlin’s name did we manage to forget about that?”

Sirius swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you say something? You’re meant to be the practical one!”

I glared at him. “ _You’re_ meant to be the clever one.”

“I don’t believe in pigeonholing people like that. It’s very bourgeois.”

“Then why did you just do it?”

“Consistency is the hobgoblin of petty minds. Marx said that.”

“Pope.”

“Marx. What would the Pope know about it?”

Our argument was interrupted by the appearance of yet another owl on the horizon, this one clutching a plump bundle of letters. I braced myself.

Sirius ripped open a letter, whistled softly, and opened another. “Moony, we’re saved!” he shouted. “I mean, we’re expelled, but it’s all good!”

“What?” I said weakly. “We’ve been expelled from Hogwarts?” The calamities seemed to be piling on too quickly for me to keep up.

“No, you twit. From the Kwikspell Correspondence Course.”

He handed me one of the letters. If Professor Prince-Snape had succumbed to a moment of uncharacteristic weakness in his letter to Sister Mary Perpetua, he was in rare form now that he had received the reply.

* * *

_Mr Bugleblower:_  
_In vain have I struggled. It will not do. I have slaved and toiled in the hopes of dispelling the fog around at least one of my students’ brains, only to receive nothing but scorn at the hands of those who are incapable of recognizing genuine talent when they see it. I have concluded that teaching is not a profession for adults; in fact, it is the worst career on earth, mostly because it involves dealing with people like you. The purgatory of being in constant association with the slow-witted and addle-pated is simply too much to be borne. My sole consolation is the hope that you find your own company as stupefying as I do. You are, in short, expelled for terminal imbecility. I shall ask Mr Harbottle to refund your money if you promise never to come anywhere near me again._  
_Sincerely yours,_  
_S. Prince-Snape_

_P.S. No, your Flobberworm is not going to get any livelier if you feed it cabbage instead of lettuce. IT IS A RUBBER BAND!!! How many times do I have to tell you?_

* * *

“I wonder what’s happened to make him so angry at the world,” said Sirius, contemplating another letter of much the same tenor.

“I can’t imagine,” I replied.

“Oh well. Lucky for us, though, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

***

Lily, to nobody’s great surprise, decided less than a week after we returned to school that she _did_ want to be James Potter’s girlfriend, after all. By this time she and Sirius had worked out that although they were both in love with the same man, it was quite a different _sort_ of love, and they became the greatest of friends.

Brownie slowly became a barred owl, and then a white one again, but he never forgave me for the dyeing incident. He spent much of the next year hacking up mouse fur pellets in my shoes and dive-bombing my head with the morning post.

Several months later, the first-ever production of the Hogwarts Drama Society, written by Sirius Black, opened to great applause. It was called _Who is Rubeus ‘Big Red’?_ and it was about a dashing young working-class hero (played by Sirius, naturally) who took the corrupt bourgeois society in which he lived by storm. His name was on everyone’s lips; crowds rallied around to hear him speak; women, and a few men, fell madly in lust with him. (And so the line I had inadvertently contributed to the play’s script fell perfectly into place.) Big Red, however, was resolutely chaste and virtuous, caring only for Social Justice. In the end, he was nefariously assassinated by the play’s villain, a character who was known only as “The Boss-Man” but who shared certain quirks of speech and an unusually sharp and gleaming row of teeth with Roger the Wiz. Workers and students wept; young girls vowed revenge upon the System; and out of this orgy of grief emerged a Revolution. In the end, everybody joined hands and sang the _Internationale_.

I cannot truthfully say that Sirius missed his calling when he decided not to become a playwright; but I do think the sixth-year Slytherin who played the Boss-Man would have found a better use for his talents if he had stuck to the stage. He was really a rather good actor when he wasn’t sulking about not having the lead role, but he thought that the business of putting on a play involved too much collaboration and not enough glory. He took off for Wagga Wagga after leaving school and published a poorly researched and sensationalistic book called _Wanderings with Werewolves_ a year later.

Hagrid was much better at performing clandestine spells with his pink umbrella when we returned to school, although I found it hard to look him in the eye for many months afterwards. Mrs. Figg never did improve, but she stayed on friendly terms with Sirius and sent him Christmas cards with many pictures of her cats. By far the most successful of our former students, however, was D. J. Prod, who ended up writing glowing testimonials for Kwikspell and selling yak’s-wool mittens on the side. The shaving spell, it seemed, came in handy in more ways than one.

I have lost many jobs since that summer, but seldom so deservingly.


End file.
